


Bad Blood

by whitchry9



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, Fear, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Matt sort of takes a break from the Daredeviling, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You only find out because you're in the hospital for another reason.<br/>The doctor tells you this is a good thing. You think that this doctor has a skewed perception of the word 'good'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

> http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=3034574#cmt3034574

The thing is, you don't find out until you're in the hospital for a completely unrelated reason. (You were hit by a car, and if that isn't ridiculous, then you don't know what is. You've survived being Daredevil, but it's a random car that nearly kills you? You're exaggerating a bit, you're nowhere near to death, but the point still stands.)

So you're in the hospital with a broken leg and a whole bunch of stitches and some cracked ribs and a concussion. That apparently freaked the doctors out, because they didn't realize you were blind, and so sent you for multiple head scans before you woke up and told them, yeah, you were blind, and your brain was not melting. But concussion. (It's not the first one you've had, and it sure won't be the last.)

 

But the thing is, they ran blood tests when the paramedics brought you in, unconscious from a combination of the head injury and the shock and the pain. (You're terrible at controlling your senses when you're tired or sick or in pain, and this was the holy trinity, sort of.)

So they ran blood tests to check for infection or diseases and to figure out what blood type you are (A+, second most common type) and to make sure your electrolytes are right or whatever and to check for signs of something medical going on.

 

But what they find is something else entirely.

 

* * *

 

“Sorry, can you say that again?” you ask.

The doctor telling you is very apologetic. You could tell as soon as he came in that he had bad news. He's young too, young enough that this might be his first time telling someone news like this.

“Your blood tests showed lower than normal CD4 counts, antibodies for the virus, and evidence of the virus in your blood, all of which are indicative of being HIV positive.”

You frown, and it tugs on the stitches in your cheek, only two of them.

“Are you... sure?” you ask, and you hate when your voice breaks slightly in the middle of the words.

The doctor nods, before he realizes what he's doing. “The tests are quite definitive. We'll run them again, of course, but I'd like you to prepare yourself for living with this condition for the foreseeable future.” He winces at his word choice. “However, many people live successfully with HIV for many years and remain healthy for much of their life.”

You don't know what to say to that.

“Do you have any questions?” he prompts after a moment. 

“I was just hit by a car,” you whimper. 

“I know that this is unexpected, but it's actually good. It means you can begin drug therapy to prevent the onset of AIDS. With the drugs, many people don't develop AIDS for decades.”

You think that this doctor has a skewed perception of the word 'good'. Stick and him would probably get along great.

“Now, I do have to ask you about possible ways you could have been exposed. Have you had intercourse without protection in the last two years?”

“No, I don't... there hasn't been anyone for a while. And certainly not... unprotected. I don't know how this could have happened. I just... don't know,” you admit. You're lying, of course. You know how this happened. So many people have bled on you, and you've had so many open wounds. It only makes sense that some blood has gotten mixed up. And of course it happens to be infected blood. Your luck is like that.

“Well, it can lay dormant for many years. We're going to refer you to a specialist who will take over your primary care for any issues you have related to your status.”

You nod, because it's all you can do at this point.

“I'm going to leave you some pamphlets, and we're going to get a social worker in to go over them with you.”

He sets them down on the table next to your bed. You can hear them sliding against each other. Shiny, glossy paper, the kind you can't read with your fingers, no matter how hard you focus.

You lay back and sigh, wincing as it makes your cracked ribs ache. Honestly, you should know better by now.

 

Foggy arrives shortly after the doctor leaves, of course he does, because he's your emergency contact and best friend and business partner and basically your everything. (You don't tell him that though.)

He knows that something is wrong immediately. And you know he knows because you can hear his heart, even though you try not to, you just can't help it, because it's a steady drumbeat that has always been there through law school and late nights studying and the times when you had nightmares and couldn't get back to sleep until you listened for that steady beat.

So everyone knows that everyone knows.

Foggy just doesn't know what, exactly.

 

“Matty, are you okay?” he asks breathlessly, like he ran through the hospital to find you. He probably did.

You shrug. It only hurts a bit, dulled under the medications. “I was hit by a car. For real this time.”

Foggy sighs at you. You know Foggy's sighs very well. This is his 'I know you're hurt but you're also really pissing me off' sigh. You've heard it quite a bit since he found out about your vigilantism. He drags a chair over and sits right next to you.

“Yeah, but you wouldn't have that hurt puppy face on for just a broken leg,” he points out.

“I have broken ribs too,” you offer. “And a concussion.”

Foggy glares at you. You can feel it.

“They ran blood tests.”

“And?”

“...it's not exactly good.”

“Like I said, you wouldn't have the hurt puppy face on if it was anything minor. So come on buddy, out with it. Unless you don't want to tell me. I mean, you don't have to. But if you want to, you should, because we're-”

“Foggy,” you interrupt, because you know it could go on for a while still. “I'm trying to tell you, okay. I really am.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head down.

“The blood tests show that I'm HIV positive.”

Foggy's head shoots up. “HIV like AIDS?”

You shrug. “HIV is the virus that leads to AIDS. They're not interchangeable. I think.”

“How... how did this happen?” he asks. He's still reeling over the news.

“I get hurt a lot. So do other people. They tend to bleed on me. That's probably how it happened.”

“Oh, ew,” Foggy grimaces. He's squirming a bit in the chair now.

“I should tell Claire,” you realize. “I mean, she used gloves I think, but they're never totally effective, and she probably didn't use them the time she initially pulled me out of a dumpster. Wow, what a thanks that would be. 'Thanks for saving me so many times, as a thank you I've given you HIV.' Fantastic.” You realize something. “Oh, Foggy, I'm sorry. You should probably be checked too. I probably bled all over you when you found me.”

“Which wasn't exactly your fault,” he points out. “So I'm not gonna blame you. But yeah, I'll get tested.”

You nod at him. His heartbeat steadies.

 

“Do you... I don't know, need a hug or something?”

You chuckle. “Maybe when my ribs don't hurt as much. But thanks.”

“These pamphlets here for you?”

You nod.

“They do realize you're blind, right? Cause that's a major oversight if they didn't. Pun totally intended.”

You smile at him. “They know. They said that a social worker would be coming in to talk to me and read them.”

Foggy scoffs. “You don't need a social worker when you've got me. Okay, let's see the first one. 'So you've just been diagnosed with HIV'. This sounds promising. The cover has a smiling man on it. He looks ridiculously healthy, like, better than me. I don't think he actually has HIV.”

“Foggy,” you groan.

“Alright, alright.”

He flips open to the first page and starts reading.

 

* * *

 

When they release you, it's with a pair of crutches and an entire pharmacy worth of medication. You're promised that you'll be able to walk on your broken ankle in a week, but you know that a week is pretty much forever when you're balancing a cane, crutches, and broken ribs.

The thought of it makes you not want to leave your apartment the entire time.

 

The drugs are a bit more worrying. It's an entire regimen, designed to fight the virus that has taken hold in your body, and give your cells a boost in fighting it. You've lost count of how many you're supposed to take in a day, but Foggy has helpfully divvied them up into pill containers for you. He's kind of the best.

 

(His test came back negative, and so did Claire's, which means you can stop beating yourself up so much. You can handle yourself being infected, but you're not sure you can live with the thought of passing it on to anyone else.)

 

All your injuries considered, you won't be donning your mask anytime soon.

 

* * *

 

The week passes, but it's one of the longest and worst of your life. Between your injuries and the new medications, you feel like shit the whole time.

 

The orthopedic doctor that examines your x-rays the next week approves weight bearing, and you could nearly cheer. Even with your senses, getting around with a cane is so much easier.

And you miss going out.

(You almost miss work. Not that you'd tell them.)

 

Karen came to visit you once. She brought another balloon, this time with an elephant. You still have the one with the monkey stowed away somewhere, but you don't tell her that. You also don't tell her about the medications you have to take now, or your new status.

You tell yourself that you don't want her to worry, and it's partially true.

 

But you also don't want to deal with her sympathy.

 

* * *

 

You adjust to the medications and the idea that you now have this... thing, around the time the cast comes off your leg. It's still weak, and you won't be going out and fighting for a few more weeks still, but you really missed having ankle range of motion. (It's the little things.)

 

The time off for your physical injuries also gives you time to think about what you're going to do. About the whole thing where your blood is a biohazard.

(Which makes you wonder just how many places your blood has gotten to. Claire's place. Her friend's place. All over your apartment. The office probably. Likely every single street of Hell's Kitchen, and most of the rooftops. Foggy's apartment. The list goes on and on.)

 

The people that you've bled on. Who've bled on you. One of them gave it to you, you know that much. Because you've never had unprotected sex; you're not stupid.

But you can't know which one, or when. The doctor mentioned something about an initial infection that would have been a lot like the flu, but worse. You can't remember the last time you were actually sick.

 

And you don't know if you've given it to anyone. Because anyone that you've bled on could be infected.

It's not like you can post an ad in a newspaper that reads 'anyone bled on by Daredevil, get HIV testing'. They would tear you apart, and you've only just gotten them back on your side. Barely.

 

Besides, the entire idea is ridiculous.

 

* * *

 

Your first appointment with your new doctor is terrifying. You take Foggy, and you tell him it's because you don't want to get lost. You both know that it's more about the fear than anything else.

 

She makes assumptions about your relationship, of course she does, everyone does. But it's alright.

 

The first appointment drags on forever, and it feels like your brain is spilling over with all the information. She talks about medication and viral loads and probability of transmission and symptoms of the disease progressing and AIDS defining illnesses and every single complication that could occur.

You can tell Foggy is terrified. You are too.

 

You both practically stagger out of there, struggling under the weight of the information. You've never known facts that were so heavy.

 

* * *

 

Life goes on. Your legs gets stronger, and you think about donning your mask again. The newspapers are wondering where Daredevil is, or if he's dead or worse.

 

(You almost wish you knew someone who would dress up like you and make some appearances, just so it seems like you're out there, but it's a little late for that. Six weeks ago would have been good. Besides, you don't have that many friends.)

 

But when you think about putting on the costume and wearing the mask and beating up criminals, something in your stomach twists.

You tell yourself it's nausea from the medication.

 

* * *

 

You put it off for another week, telling yourself it's to improve the strength of your leg. Which is partially true, but it's more the fear.

 

Because you love this city, and you can't stand the thought of harming anyone in it by trying to save them.

 

(Obviously, you knew it happened before. You couldn't save everyone, and sometimes innocent people got hurt. But this is different.)

 

You fear your own body now. Your worst fear is literally yourself.

You're afraid of what could happen if you went out as Daredevil and bled on someone. Logically, you know the odds of transmitting the disease are low, but sometimes fears aren't logical.

But you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet.

 

If Foggy notices your hesitation, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't comment on the absence of Daredevil in the media. Doesn't engage in conversation when Karen brings it up.

You appreciate that so much.

 

(You don't tell him that, but you do thank him every week when he comes over to fill up your pill dispenser. The thanks are heavy with more meaning than simply thanks for a single action. No one mentions it though.)

 

* * *

 

Six months after you were hit by the car and diagnosed with HIV, your viral load is down and your CD4 count is up. The medication is working. You're healthy.

Six months after you get the news, you don your mask and suit and stand on top of your building.

The city is crying out. It's hurting, so much.

 

You focus on a single call for help, a woman two blocks away who is about to be raped.

 

You cross yourself and pray that you only save people tonight, not hurt them, and dive off the roof.

 

 


End file.
